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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
207
“Well”—
said
I
at
last.
“I’m
thankful
you
begin
with
‘well!’
If
you’d
have
begun
with
‘but,’
as
you
did
afore,
I’d
not
ha’
listened
to
you.
Now
you
may
go
on.”
“I
know
you
would
be
a
great
loss
to
Miss
Matty,
Martha”—
“I
telled
her
so.
A
loss
she’d
never
cease
to
be
sorry
for,”
broke
in
Martha
triumphantly.
“Still,
she
will
have
so
little—
so
very
little—
to
live
upon,
that
I
don’t
see
just
now
how
she
could
find
you
food—
she
will
even
be
pressed
for
her
own.
I
tell
you
this,
Martha,
because
I
feel
you
are
like
a
friend
to
dear
Miss
Matty,
but
you
know
she
might
not
like
to
have
it
spoken
about.”
Apparently
this
was
even
a
blacker
view
of
the
subject
than
Miss
Matty
had
presented
to
her,
for
Martha
just
sat
down
on
the
first
chair
that
came
to
hand,
and
cried
out
loud
(we
had
been
standing
in
the
kitchen).
At
last
she
put
her
apron
down,
and
looking
me
earnestly
in
the
face,
asked,
“Was
that
the
reason
Miss
Matty
wouldn’t
order
a
pudding
to-day?
She
said
she
had
no
great
fancy
for
sweet
things,
and
you
and
she
would
just
have
a
mutton
chop.
But
I’ll
be
up
to
her.
Never
you
tell,
but
I’ll
make
her
a
pudding,
and
a
pudding
she’ll
like,
too,
and
I’ll
pay
for
it
myself;
so
mind
you
see
she
eats
it.
Many
a
one
has
been
comforted
in
their
sorrow
by
seeing
a
good
dish
come
upon
the
table.”
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